


rains, pours (i'll be there for you)

by highways



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:55:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1492420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highways/pseuds/highways
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winning isn't constant, but maybe something, someone, always is. (post Copa del Rey final, 2014)</p>
            </blockquote>





	rains, pours (i'll be there for you)

**Author's Note:**

> LOL THIS IS PRETTY MUCH JUST A QUICK 1K+ WORDS OF FERMENTED QUESO TO MASK MY PAIN OVER THIS BEAUT OF A [PIC](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/BlYM6whCQAAR5je.jpg:large)
> 
> Also, I was 3/4 done typing this when I remembered that they played at the Mestalla and not at the Bernabéu, and I was too lazy to change it, so we'll just go on pretending that they did play in Madrid. Okay.

 

 

 

It's not as painful, Leo thinks, losing the Copa, as much as it isn't as painful to have his legs amputated in a road accident than it is to be shot in the back by a firing squad, all equipped with M-16s, all of them loaded with a magazine of bullets. It's in a sense expected, because someone can cross the street and see a car speeding forward and towards them, and it'd be fast, fleeting, but they'd still realize that they're about to be run over, that it's going to hurt. A firing squad, though. Only one of the soldiers should be armed with bullets. But if all of them were, the one blindfolded wouldn't be any wiser. He'd go on thinking that it's one shot, one kill, until it wasn't anymore, until he has fifty bullets embedded into his back and is lying dead on the ground, blood spilling in a rising pool underneath the carcass of his body.  
  
Leo's not dead, nor is his situation as graphic, but it definitely hurts.  
  
He looks at the crowd of white at the centre of the pitch, all with grins splitting their faces, teeth just as blinding as the shirts on their backs. Funny how Geri was laughing at Madrid just last season for not winning any silver. He had chanted _Madrid, cabrón, salud al campeón!_ over and over again before the Atlético game last May, just after hearing about Real's draw against Espanyol, in a way trying to keep everyone's spirits up after the humiliation of Bayern, after the cumulative of everything else that's happened to them. Tito’s cancer, Abi leaving—they needed this, needed something light, something happy, and winning the Liga gave them some of that. Leo had laughed along with everybody, had smiled so wide at Dani singing along and then Cesc, laughed so hard he almost choked when Puyi entered the locker room hearing them and knuckled them all on the back of their heads for not upholding the proper sporting spirit of a champion. Geri had looked put off for a total of 3.46 seconds, but then he was back to crushing Puyi in a hug like he always seems to be doing, ecstatic grin plastered on his face. Leo only saw Puyi's own face in flashes as Geri twirled him around, but he knows there was a small smile hanging somewhere on there too.  
  
And look at them now. Geri's not singing anymore. He didn't even play. Neither is Dani, nor Cesc, nor anyone else. Puyi, for what it's worth, is still knuckling everyone on the head, but it's out of dutiful comfort now, of knowing how broken his team is and nothing being there to fix them. He's leaving this season, Leo remembers. Another shot to the back, another added bullet lodged directly where his heart is. Maybe this is their karma.  
  
Cristiano's doing the rounds now, Leo sees, going to every single one of Leo's teammates to pat them on the back, whisper something that's supposed to be consoling in their ear when they hug. He didn't play either. Madrid still won, and _that_ hurts. Leo wishes Cristiano wouldn't come over to him; whatever it is he needs right now, it's not to face Cristiano, it’s not to see him look at Leo with sympathy, it’s not—  
  
But Cristiano does, steps up to him in strides, looks almost unsure of what to do when he gets in front of him, only a decent amount of inches apart. His hesitancy is only a flicker, because then he's wrapping an arm around Leo's back, is pulling him closer to him for contact; not a hug, but it's close enough that it could be, is surprising enough that Leo knows the press will go insane, already hears the collective shutters of a hundred apertures on all the cameras stationed around the stadium.  
  
"People will see," Leo says quietly, when his face gets covered by Cristiano's chest, knows his mouth won't be read, misread, by reporters who've already made the two of them their story for the night.  
  
"Smile for the cameras, then," is all Cristiano answers, and then he's pulling away. Leo obeys, pastes a grateful smile along his lips for the press, hears another round of shutters chorus in his ear. "Hey."  
  
"Yeah?" Leo says, looks up at Cristiano, sees an unreadable expression on his face that Leo knows far too well to believe as apathy. "Cris—"  
  
"It'll all get better," Cristiano mumbles lowly, trails his hand up from Leo's back to the nape of his neck, strokes the fine hairs along it lightly. His fingers are warm, indents in Leo’s skin like a burn, and it’s oxymoronic that he shivers slightly in response, hopes hard that it’s not caught on tape. "Your team always manages to bounce back. It's what makes you guys so annoying."  
  
Leo laughs, and it's genuine, can't be helped. Cristiano has always had a knack for this, of being able to make a compliment veiled in an insult, has Leo smiling and comforted every time he does it in an argument, in a moment of tension or sadness. “It’s not that easy.”  
  
He knows how pathetic he sounds. Maybe Cristiano does too, because he’s pulling him in again, is whispering into his ear, “You’ll make it.”  
  
“I guess.”  
  
“No,” and Cristiano sounds certain, like he doesn’t believe in anything else, has confidence in Leo like he has confidence in himself. “You’ll fight, and you’ll make it.”  
  
And maybe Leo was wrong, maybe this _is_ what he needed, because he finds himself smiling, finds himself _hoping_ , even if it’s just for a little while. “If you say so.”  
  
“When am I ever wrong?” Cristiano says loftily, but he’s grinning down at Leo. There are lines creasing the skin around his eyes, his mouth, the kind Leo likes seeing on the people he loves. “You’ll come to my place later?”  
  
From behind Cristiano, Leo can already make out the forms of the other Madrid players clamoring to collect Cristiano, the scarf around Pepe’s head bouncing listlessly as he hops over towards them. “You’ll be out celebrating. It’s okay.”  
  
“I’ll be home in a couple of hours,” Cristiano says like a promise, turns his head to give a quick grin in Pepe’s direction when he hears him call out his name. “They’ll all be drunk by then, so I’ll quickly slip out. They won’t know.”  
  
“Really,” Leo says, feels almost urgent now that Pepe and them are coming closer. They don’t know about him and Cristiano; they would be accepting if they did, Leo knows, doesn’t begrudge them enough to think otherwise, but neither of them thought it was necessary to tell. Their relationship is for them, no one else, and even though Leo knows they’d respect it, none of them would ever understand, not really. “It’s alright. I won’t be much of good company anyways.”  
  
“Any chance I get to be with you _is_ good company,” Cristiano says, and Leo feels something in his chest lighten, like it always does when Cristiano is like this, open, tender, like all he wants for is Leo’s happiness as well.  
  
But Leo still laughs, because that’s how they’ve always worked, emotions hidden in something else. “You’re so—” _cheesy_ , is what he wants to say, but Cristiano knows it, shows him an even cheesier grin that’s far too smug, like making Leo smile is a bigger victory than winning the fucking _Copa del Rey_. “Thanks.”  
  
“I’m so _thanks_?” Cristiano quips back. He leans down, and for a moment Leo thinks he’s going to kiss him, but then Cristiano’s pulling away just as quickly, as if he’s realized he could get away with a hug, but not anything more than that. Cristiano looks mildly annoyed—for his lapse, for the restrictions they have in public, Leo isn’t sure—but he only huffs out a breath, is soon smiling softly at Leo anyways. “You’ll wait for me later?”  
  
“Yeah,” and Leo thinks he’s willing to wait a lifetime, as long as if it’s for Cristiano. “I will.”


End file.
